


Safety and Home

by spectre_tabris



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, I wanted happy twin banter, i know i am, ignore the fact that Rion shouldn't be alive, implied background Dorian Pavus/Male Lavellan, look this is basically just pure unadulterated self-indulgence, so I wrote happy twin banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 18:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13346547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectre_tabris/pseuds/spectre_tabris
Summary: Kyra Lavellan tries to come to terms with her newly-bestowed title. Her brother helps. For some definition of helping, that is.





	Safety and Home

When Kyra Lavellan finally manages to escape the crowd of supporters and well-wishers packed into Skyhold’s ruined courtyard, each of them eager to offer their own congratulations on her newly-bestowed title, she makes her way to the tent she and her brother Rion have claimed for their own while they work to make the ruined fortress fit for habitation once more. The canvas walls offer little in the way of true privacy, but with the flap down and tied shut she can at least pretend. If nothing else, most people seem a little less inclined to demand her attention if they have to fight their way through intricate knots of fraying rope.

As she ducks under the flap that serves as her door she finds that the tent is not as empty as she had expected. Lounging on the cot at the far end of the space, regarding Kyra with far more amusement than she thinks the situation really deserves, is Rion.

“You certainly seem to be moving up in the world,” he says once she has made it inside the tent, and Kyra takes a moment to marvel at the lack of rancor in the statement. Six months ago, back at the start of this whole Inquisition disaster, such a comment from him would have been seeped in anger and bitterness, his hatred of the human Inquisition and the expectations and demands they had lain on Kyra coloring every word. It is remarkable the changes a few short months can cause, Kyra muses as she makes a face at Rion’s words. She does not know if it was the long weeks spent fighting side by side with members of that same Inquisition that had softened his views, or the effect the entire experience has had on Kyra, or the unexpected friendships he has formed with Cassandra and Leliana and even Dorian (and oh, doesn’t _that_ relationship make Kyra’s head hurt - she adores Dorian, she has made no secret of that, but her brother carries a rage inside him that she never has, has taken the wrongs done to their people to heart, and to see him engaged in what Kyra can only call a bizarre form of courtship with a Tevinter mage is beyond surreal) that caused this, but whatever it was, she is grateful for it. For all that this is not home and for all that she sometimes misses her clan so much she can’t breathe with it, she is comfortable here among these people and she has no intention of abandoning them. That Rion will not hate the time he spends here at her side is a relief.

Though she could do without the return of his constant teasing. It has been so peaceful the last few months while he was too preoccupied with his fuming to harass her.

(That is a lie. For all that she is loathe to admit it, she had missed this, too, aggravating though it may be.)

“I am beginning to suspect that there is some sort of curse on Skyhold that causes all humans staying here to collectively lose their minds,” Kyra mutters as she drops down onto the rickety cot beside her brother. Her own cot is only feet away, but the effort required to shift over feels like far more than she currently has to spare. Besides, her current position puts her in prime elbowing range should Rion get _too_ annoying. “I can’t think of any other explanation for this ridiculousness.”

Rion snorts and reaches over to jab her in the side. It should probably have occurred to her earlier that he is just as able to reach her as she is him, but she cannot bring herself to care too much. She is too busy enjoying the lack of tension in the air between them. “We should let the clan know,” he suggests, and though the words are reasonable enough the wicked curve of his smirk tells Kyra that she is not going to like where this is going. “I can imagine the letter now: _Dear Keeper, we are writing to inform you that the shemlen have decided that Kyra - you know, the atheist who panics whenever anyone so much as glances her way - is the perfect person to lead their army of the faithful. We will keep you updated as events unfold. Love, Rion and Kyra._ ”

“Why did I ever agree to let you come along?” Kyra grumbles as she reaches over to shove at him. She might as well have tried to push the walls of Skyhold itself, for all the good it does her: he does not shift even in the slightest and Kyra subsides with an irritated huff. (She might even have had more luck with the walls - with as ruined and crumbling as the fortress is, there are plenty of places where one good push will send bits of rock and mortar tumbling to the ground.)

“You would be lost without me and you know it,” he tells her, smug and insufferable. Kyra opts to remain quiet - to deny the words would be a lie Rion would see through in an instant but to agree would do nothing but feed his already oversized ego. “And besides, you couldn’t have gotten rid of me if you tried. You’re stuck with me, sister-mine.”

“Much to my constant dismay.” Kyra falls back to lie on the cot, her eyes fixed on the canvas roof without really seeing it. “What are you doing back so early, anyway? I usually don’t see you until well after dark these days.”

It’s true, and Kyra is somewhat ashamed of how much that fact bothers her. They have been inseparable their entire lives but lately she feels like he is spending most of his time out assisting with supplies or repairs while she is sequestered away with the rest of the war council - _her_ war council now, she supposes. Part of her misses the days when it was just the two of them against the world, even as she settles more and more into these new circumstances. She shoves the thought aside, dismissing it as unimportant. He is here with her now, and that is all that matters.

“I can’t just want to check on my favorite sister?” Rion asks. For all that his tone is mocking, there is a degree of concern in his eyes that tells Kyra that it is not entirely a joke, that maybe he has been feeling their recent distance as much as she has. She considers calling him on it, considers forcing him into an actual, serious conversation, but that has never been how they operate. They are far better with insults and taunts than they will ever be with genuine emotion. So instead of pressing she shifts her foot to kick him in the shin.

“I’m your only sister; of course I’m your favorite.”

Rion shoots her a quicksilver grin, there and gone again in a flash of white teeth. “By that logic, you’re also my _least_ favorite sister.”

That, Kyra decides, is a ridiculous statement not even worth consideration and she dismisses it entirely.

“Well, since you’re so concerned,” she drawls in a fair mimicry of Rion’s casual tone, “I’m just _delightful_. Having a castle full of people looking at me like they think I have any more of an idea of what’s going on than they do is something of a dream come true, you know.” In a way, it’s even true - nightmares are technically a type of dream, after all. With a shrug that does little to hide the anxiety that has been twisting her stomach in knots from the moment Cassandra had led her up the steps toward a responsibility Kyra had neither asked for nor desired, she spreads her arms out to encompass the tent around them. “Behold, my kingdom.”

Rion surveys their surroundings, looking distinctly unimpressed. “I’ve seen more inviting outhouses,” he says with a characteristic lack of tact. Before Kyra can respond to defend their lodgings - the tent is a little run-down, perhaps, but it isn’t _that_ bad - Rion rises to his feet with a grace Kyra has long since given up envying and holds out a hand to her.

“Come on, then.”

Kyra blinks at him for a long moment, mind racing as she tries to follow whatever strange paths Rion’s thoughts have taken. She isn’t quite sure how they shifted from “Skyhold is a mess” to “field trip to Creators-only-know-where” and she is a little afraid to ask.

Seeing her reticence, Rion shakes his head with a put-upon sigh. “I want to show you something,” he says, which Kyra feels explains absolutely nothing. She has learned (the hard way, perhaps, but she learned nonetheless) to be wary of Rion when he has that particular glint in his eye. It’s the one that means he is plotting something and such plots rarely end well for Kyra. But this is Rion and for all that he is a monumental pain in her ass, she has never been any better at saying no to him than he has been to her. Besides, she cannot deny her curiosity.

“If this ends at one of those outhouses, I am turning you into a toad,” she warns as she takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. “And not even one of the cool looking toads, either - a fat one. With horns. And warts.”

Rion doesn’t respond to the threat, just leads her out of the tent and through the courtyard, into the keep itself. He is silent as they make their way through the Great Hall, the high walls lined with ladders and scaffolding from the Inquisition’s repair efforts, and through a side door that Kyra has not yet had time to explore properly. It seems that she is being given the chance to do just that. Beyond the door, they head up a flight of stairs that are far cleaner than Kyra would have expected - most repairs have been focused on more integral parts of the castle, with unused halls such as these put aside until the rest of the fortress has been made habitable. And yet she can see clear signs of recent work throughout the area - new Serault glass in the windows, fresh-cut timber supports, even the floor seems to have been swept and scrubbed, cracked floor stones either repaired or replaced

Kyra looks around, brow creased with suspicion. Rion is up to something. She might not know what that something is, exactly, but she is certain it exists.

“Where are we going?” she demands as he pulls her around a corner. Rion just shoots her a too-innocent look that does nothing to assuage Kyra’s concerns.

“You’ll see.”

That comment earns him an unhappy glare from Kyra and she spends the rest of their trip - it could not have been more than a minute but it feels far longer, an exercise in endurance - grumbling quietly under her breath, a litany of curses and insults just loud enough for Rion to overhear if he tries. And of course he does: by the time they finally stop outside a heavy wooden door, the corners of his mouth are twitching with poorly-suppressed amusement.

“Ready?” he asks with a childlike grin, one that is equal parts enthusiasm and clear enjoyment of Kyra’s irritation, a look that Kyra is far too familiar with after a childhood spent with a brother who was equal parts protector and tormentor.

“How can I be ready when you won’t tell me what’s going on?” Her petulance does little to dim Rion’s enjoyment, however, and he opens the door with an elaborate flourish that Kyra is certain he picked up from Dorian.

There is something depressingly anticlimactic about the way the door swings in to reveal a simple staircase. Kyra narrows her eyes at Rion as she tries to figure out his game.

“All this for a staircase?” she asks, and Rion heaves a put-upon sigh.

“It’s _up_ the staircase, smartass,” he retorts. Without giving her a chance to respond, he puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her toward the stairs. Although she can feel the urge to dawdle, to draw this out and see just how far she can push Rion before he breaks, his excitement is contagious: she darts up the stairs, leaving Rion to trail in her wake.

She is not certain what she had been expecting - from the conversation they had been having earlier, perhaps something to aid in the war that seems to have consumed their lives - but whatever it was, what actually greets her at the top of the staircase is not it. It is a bedroom, one remarkably put-together considering the state of the rest of Skyhold. Even the war room, vital though it is to their mission, has not received the level of care in its restoration that this area clearly has. Standing here, it is easy for Kyra to pretend that they are not in the middle of a half-ruined citadel that has lain abandoned for millennia. She looks around in a shocked sort of awe, taking in the massive bookcases lining the wall behind the desk, the comfortable-looking couches near the hearth, the bed that looks heavenly after too long spent on a camp cot in a draughty tent, before turning to Rion as he emerges into the room.

“It’s very nice,” she says, and she knows she fails to keep her confusion from her voice. It is a gorgeous room, it’s true, but she does not understand the purpose. Why has he brought her here? Why does this even exist in the first place when there are so many other, more important projects to work on?

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” Rion asks with a laugh. Kyra glares at him.

“Well, if _someone_ weren’t so set on being a mysterious bastard and had bothered to explain anything before dragging me across half of Skyhold, maybe I wouldn’t be so confused.”

Rion just shrugs, unrepentant. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

“And here I thought that’s what the countless demons and the darkspawn magister with delusions of godhood were for,” Kyra says, shaking her head. “How silly of me.”

“Very,” Rion agrees with a mock-solemn nod. He then drops the act and jerks his chin toward the bedroom behind them. “About as silly as the idea of the Inquisitor” - and there is no disgust or disappointment in his voice as he stays her new title, just the friendly sort of teasing that has colored nearly every conversation the two of them have had since they were small, and Kyra feels another wave of relief hit her at his quiet acceptance - “living in a tent on the lawn of her own fortress. What _would_ visiting dignitaries think?”

“I like my tent,” Kyra protests before the actual meaning of Rion’s words hit her and her head jerks up. “Wait, this is for _me_ ?” She looks around once more as Rion rolls his eyes in despair. The room has not changed and yet with this new knowledge it all seems different now, seems somehow _more_. She turns back to Rion with wide, confused eyes.

“What am I supposed to do with this? It’s huge! Who needs this much space? Do you see the size of that desk? I am not a large person; I would look ridiculous trying to use that monstrosity.”

Rion blinks at her for a moment before he bursts into a bark of startled laughter. It takes him the better part of a minute to collect himself, at which point he raises a victorious fist in the air. “Yes! Pavus owes me five gold. He thought you’d go straight for the bookshelves. Should have known better than to bet against me.”

“You were betting on this?” Then a better question occurs to her and her eyes narrow. “You _knew_ about this? About the rooms and the title and -”

Rion cuts her off with a roll of his eyes. “Kyra, my dearest darlingest sister, the only person who was even remotely surprised that they named you Inquisitor was _you_. The rest of us figured it out ages ago.”

Kyra spares a moment to be concerned for the judgment of every single member of the Inquisition. “Creators have mercy, Rion, _why_ ?” Bad enough that the war council seemed to be suffering from the mass delusion that putting Kyra in charge of anything had even the slightest chance of ending in anything other than a total disaster, but to learn that it had spread to her friends, her _twin_? Kyra can feel the beginnings of a headache curling up her neck to her temples. She has no idea how to even start processing that information.

Rion seems disinclined to give her time to sort it out, though, and he shrugs. “You’ve been leading this group of idiots in everything but name since Redcliffe, if not earlier,” he points out. “And as much as the idea boggles the mind, you haven’t done a terrible job. Between that and this ‘Herald of Andraste’ shit” - and _there_ is the disgust Kyra is more accustomed to hearing from him, spitting out _Herald of Andraste_ as though the words cause him actual physical pain to say - “the people you’ve gathered aren’t going to accept anyone else in the role.”

Kyra makes a face at that, though she cannot deny his words. “So what you’re telling me is that we’re all doomed.”

Rion snorts, inelegant and amused. “Are you kidding? Giant holes in the sky, ancient Tevinter magisters running around wreaking havoc, and the shemlen convinced that one of the People will save them all? We were doomed from the beginning, sister.”

And that...is a very good point that Kyra does not want to dwell on just now lest she have a panic attack about the inescapability of it all. Instead she wanders off to take a closer look at the room ( _her_ room, _Mythal’enaste_ , what is she supposed to do with a bedroom that is larger than every aravel her clan has ever had put together?), Rion keeping pace with her.

“So how does ‘these people are stupid enough to put my awkward sister in a position of power’ lead into ‘let’s clean up a giant suite for her instead of focusing on important things, like the kitchens’? I’m not seeing the connection there.” She narrows her eyes at him, cutting him off before he can even begin to respond. “And don’t give me that ‘visitors will think it’s odd’ bullshit, either. That might be Josephine’s reasoning, but we both know it’s not yours. You don’t have a political bone in your body; you think it’s all a waste of time.”

Rion shrugs, not bothering to argue. “Think about it. How many times have we had random strangers burst into our tent with no warning?”

He has a point, Kyra acknowledges. She cannot recall the last time she had made it through a night without being interrupted by someone who needed something and was convinced she was the only one who could help. Not since Haven fell, she suspects. Something of her thought process must show on her face, for Rion gives her a knowing look before he continues speaking.

“Well, with an official title, we both know the demands on your time are going to get worse as every idiot in the Inquisition decides that they’re entitled to the Inquisitor’s personal attention. So we decided to make sure that when they gave you that title, they _also_ gave you somewhere to get away when it gets overwhelming. Somewhere with a door. And a lock.”

A slow smile spreads across Kyra’s face as she regards her brother with undisguised fondness. “Careful, Rion,” she warns, voice too gentle to be properly teasing, “or people will start thinking you actually care about something.”

Rion makes a face like the very idea is revolting, and Kyra cannot stop the laugh that bubbles out of her. Rion might go out of his way to convince everyone around him that he is an unmitigated ass, but Kyra suspects that it has been a long time since any of their companions - their _friends_ \- have fallen for the act. For a brief moment she toys with the thought of saying as much, of making sure that Rion knows how little he fools anyone who matters, but as entertaining as the look on his face would undoubtedly be, she cannot quite bring herself to do it. Rion would just get prickly and defensive and it would ruin the peace of the moment. So she lets the topic fall away with nothing more than a soft smile.

“So who is ‘we,’ then?” she asks instead.

Rion gives a slight shrug as though he cannot quite recall. “A little bit of everyone, really. The Seeker and I decided you needed a place to get away. Pavus suggested setting up quarters for you, Sera found the location, Enchanter Vivienne arranged for the furnishings, Warden Blackwall and Bull did all the heavy lifting, and Varric kept everyone from killing each other. It was something of a group effort.”

“Apparently.” Kyra decides that she owes Varric a very large drink - after months spent trying to keep order amongst her companions while out in the field, she is only too aware of how difficult his role in this endeavor has to have been. She lets out a disbelieving little laugh, running her fingers along the whirling patterns carved into the posts of the bed (now that Rion has mentioned it, Kyra can see Vivienne’s influence in every part of the room, that quiet but undeniable elegance). “I’m still not sure how you even convinced everyone to work together in the first place, though.” Kyra knows from experience just how much of a challenge _that_ is, as well.

“Turns out the only thing that group of jackasses can agree on is that they all rather like you. We worked it out.” Rion shrugs, too-casual in a way that sets alarm bells ringing in Kyra’s head. There is more to that story than Rion is saying, she realizes, but one look at the stubborn set of his jaw and she knows that he will not explain further.

“Thank you,” she says in lieu of pushing the matter. For all that she has no idea what to do with all this space, she cannot deny how touched she is by what her friends have done for her. She grins suddenly, letting the mood lighten once more. “I also don’t understand how you managed to keep it a secret this long. This must have taken weeks to put together.”

Rion matches her grin, though his is tinged with a hint of wickedness. “It helps that you’re hardly the most observant person around,” he drawls.

Kyra’s eyes narrow at the slight and one of the heavily-decorated pillows is off the bed and flying toward his face before she even realizes she has picked it up. Her aim is far from perfect - the pillow bounces harmlessly off his shoulder instead of smacking him in the nose as she had hoped - but it still makes her point well enough. Rion, the bastard, just laughs as he catches the pillow before it can fall to the ground.

“See, this is why they didn’t make _you_ Inquisitor,” she grumbles with a pout, already sidling to the side in an attempt to put the bedpost between her and her newly-armed brother. “Because you’re an asshole.”

The light of the setting sun pouring in through the windows glints off the golden embroidery of the pillow as Rion turns it over in his hands, his eyes fixed on Kyra’s retreating form with all the focus of a leopard stalking its prey.

“They didn’t make me Inquisitor because I don’t have a glow-in-the-dark hand.” There is a beat before his face splits into that too-familiar smirk. “And also because I’m an asshole.”

The last word has not even left his mouth before he lunges at her, wielding the pillow like a weapon, and any reply Kyra might have made is lost as she falls back with a laugh to defend herself against his onslaught.


End file.
